


Vacation

by JustMakeLeftTurns



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Depression, Gen, Historical References, Suicide, Vietnam War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-01
Updated: 2015-04-05
Packaged: 2018-03-20 17:53:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3659601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustMakeLeftTurns/pseuds/JustMakeLeftTurns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It's okay, Iggy. I'm okay. I'm just going on a permanent vacation, so I need you to take care of my people."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The day was finally here. Finally, finally the war had ended. For America, at least. He was at that point where he didn’t care about much anymore. After all, his people hated him, hated his boss, hated the war. They didn’t have any respect for the soldiers. They didn’t have any national pride.

America could feel stabbing pains all over his body. Some of the pain was from actual wounds and scars he’d gotten while over at Vietnam. But most of it was from his peoples’ anger and frustration. Throughout the war, he’d had to feel it, and it just got worse and worse. He’d taken to shooting himself when he was alone, in the arm, in the leg, in the shoulder, to feel something other than the pain of his people’s protests and the pain of war in general. No one ever heard the gunshots, and he healed quickly enough. True, there were marks, but no one had ever questioned them.

He was still laughing and smiling around his people, his soldiers, even when someone died. He didn’t know any other way to express his sorrow, so he hid it instead, just as the soldiers did. No matter how many wars he’d fought, it still hurt when someone died. So they all joked around, as if nothing had happened.

///break///

One of the guys, before being killed by a hand grenade, always thought about going home, just as they all did. “Man, I need a vacation,” he’d say.

“Don’t we all?” another guy would reply.

America would grin. “Go to Hawaii. Heard it’s beautiful there.”

But then the guy had been killed. Afterwards, they had all stood around him, just looking. They talked to the corpse as if it was still alive, just for a few minutes, and then dispersed. Only America and one other guy remained beside the body.

“He finally got his vacation,” the other soldier said.

And America replied, “Yup. Probably better than Hawaii, too.”

///break///

Throughout the war, America had not received many letters. He stayed in war the entire time, as was a nation’s duty, and so quickly lost sight of reality. There were two things that he used in times of war to keep him grounded: England, and hope. Hope had vanished long ago, years before his participation in the war had ended. He’d realized how futile it was and had attempted to persuade his boss to let them leave, to no avail. So he’d clung onto England.

He’d had a photo of the two of them, and a letter from England, dated back to World War II. The letter, in a (very) roundabout way, applauded his bravery and wins. It kept him sane. He wrote several letters to England, telling him about the war, asking for help, but receiving none, and no reply.

Except for one.

The letter, from England, belittled America and mocked him for his “foolish game” in the “useless war with no end in sight.” England wrote to America that his “intentions were faulty and from a mind of a child” and that it was time for him to “stop playing hero.”

America had gone off into the woods, alone, with rain pouring down. He was glad. The rain hid his tears. He’d crushed both letters and the picture and ripped it into pieces. He’d wanted to scream at England that he wasn’t playing around, that he knew that war wasn’t a game, that he wasn’t a hero. He was a villain in this war, and he hadn’t wanted to be involved anyway.

He’d left the papers to decompose from the rain and headed back to the other soldiers. He didn’t write another letter for the rest of the war.

England’s letter had been written in 1967.

///break///

He returned home, to his lands. To the rest of his people, and their fury. He was upset that they hated him so much. That they hated the soldiers so much. He felt as if he’d let them down. And in a way, he had. They had lost the war, and many people. And for what?

He tried to adjust back to the way he’d been. He went to McDonald’s. He went to clubs and other restaurants. He went back to the office, but couldn’t concentrate. All he could think of was how he’d let down his people. How there had been no reason for involvement in the Vietnam War.

England never called him. Not once.

///break///

Six months after attempting to adjust to civilian life – and office hours – America was alone in his house, with a gun in his hand. Instead of crying, he felt strangely calm and numb. It was going to be over. All the pain, all the shame. Gone. But what about his people?

America took his cell phone in his hand and speed dialed the one person he could count on. All the while, he didn’t remove his gaze from the gun.

“What do you want, you bloody git! Do you know what time it is here!”

Oh, right. Time zones. America tried to chuckle, but failed. It was no use pretending anymore. “Hey, Iggy. Just wanted to say that I’m leaving for a while.”

England sighed in irritation. America was seriously regretting ever calling, but he had to make sure his people would be okay. “Is that all? Why are you even leaving anyway?”

America grinned wryly. Remembering that one soldier, he said, “I need a vacation.”

“And how does that involve me!” England’s voice picked up again.

Worried that England would hang up, America spoke quickly. “Promise me you’ll care for my people, okay?”

A pause. Then, “What are you talking about, America? Why can’t you care for them yourself?”

America ignored England’s tone. “Like I said … I need a vacation.”

He heard rustling on the other side of the line, as if England was sitting up or something. England’s voice was steadily becoming more panicked, “America, what are you up to? What are you saying?”

He hummed thoughtfully. He turned the gun over in his hand. He was starting to feel pain again. The emotional pain. Without thinking, he shot his foot.

“America!”

Holding back shouts of pain, America grinned, even though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Sorry. Forgot I was on the phone for a minute. But you’ll take care of my people, right? You’re the only one I trust to do it.”

“America, what did you do! What … what are you planning to do! You bloody git, don’t do anything stupid!”

He watched his foot heal, leaving a mark. “It’s okay, Iggy. I’m okay. I’m just going on a permanent vacation, so I need you to take care of my people.”

“Shut up! You’re not going anywhere! Bloody … I’m booking a flight right now. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Don’t … don’t do anything until I get there!”

England was still talking when America hung up the phone. Calmly, too calmly, he put the gun in his mouth.

In a single moment, it was all over.


	2. Alternate Ending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is what would have happened if America had waited for England.

He watched his foot heal, leaving a mark. “It’s okay, Iggy. I’m okay. I’m just going on a permanent vacation, so I need you to take care of my people.”

“Shut up! You’re not going anywhere! Bloody … I’m booking a flight right now. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Don’t … don’t do anything until I get there!”

England was still talking when America hung up the phone. Calmly, too calmly, he put the gun in his mouth.

He hesitated, a dangerous thing for a soldier to do. His hand trembled. He started to press down on the trigger. But he couldn’t do it. He wanted to, as sure as hell, but something stopped him. Choking back a sob – of frustration, of anger, of hopelessness – he removed the gun from his mouth.

He wanted to get it over with. He’d tried so, so hard to live. He couldn’t bear it any longer. And he didn’t want England to see him die. Maybe he’d wait until England left and then try again; this time, he wouldn’t make the phone call – a stupid idea, now that he thought about it.

He sunk to the ground, body trembling. He tried to smile; it was going to be over soon. Soon, there will be no more thoughts, no more pain, no more memories. He sat cross-legged on the floor, gun in his lap, cradling the weapon. It was his only way out. It was the way his people, his soldiers, had gone out; it was only fair that this was how he died, as well.

He didn’t realize how long he sat there until he heard England pounding at his front door. America stayed in his spot, silent, staring down at the gun. He heard England open the door – probably with the key under the doormat – and raised his eyes to meet England’s.

England stared, although in horror or fear, America couldn’t tell. Eventually, England took a few cautious steps towards the younger nation.

“America, whatever you’re thinking of doing –”

America chuckled humorlessly. “I’m going to do it, anyway. So just leave.” He didn’t mean for his voice to break. He didn’t mean to have to blink back tears.

England continued stepping closer, until he was able to kneel down beside America. America tightened his grip on the gun, unwilling to give it up. England raised a hand, perhaps to hit America, or perhaps to initiate a hug, but dropped the limb back to his side.

“America,” England choked. “How-how did it get this far?”

America had no answer. He shrugged in response, though he wasn’t really listening. He turned the gun in his hands, over and over. Why wouldn’t England leave? He just wanted to get this over with. He just wanted it to end.

“It was Vietnam, wasn’t it,” England murmured. America stopped fiddling with the gun and stiffened, prepared for the insults and the lecture that he knew was right. “Everything that happened –”

“You don’t know a damn thing about what happened,” America said darkly, though not unkindly. “Maybe you would if you bothered to write.” Or call or text or anything, really. But now it was too little, too late. The hope had gone, had flown away, never to be returned.

England’s eyes widened in realization. “America, I didn’t –”

“You didn’t know,” America mocked half-heartedly. “You didn’t realize. Yes, I’m aware.” Why was he still talking? Why can’t England just leave? Why doesn’t he just shoot himself now? But he couldn’t bear to do it in front of England. As much as England didn’t care about him, America still cared about England.

“I wasn’t there when you needed me,” England allowed. “But I’m here now, Alfred. And, damn it all, I won’t just let you bloody kill yourself!”

America shut his eyes. He didn’t know what to do, what to say. So he didn’t do or say anything. He forced back tears, willed himself to stay strong for a few more minutes. Just a few more minutes.

And yet, when he felt England take the gun away from him, America felt tears slip down his face, felt something inside of him break, felt everything wear down and fall apart in a split second. And when England’s arms wrapped around him, America sobbed his heart out. He turned his face into England’s chest and cried – cried for himself, cried for his people, cried for the hope that was lost.


End file.
